


pondless

by parhelions



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parhelions/pseuds/parhelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he should've been expecting it when someone who cheats at cards cheats death as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pondless

**Author's Note:**

> // edited 06/25/16

 

 

It was on the cusp of winter when he exchanged his pistol for flowers.

“Would you like these wrapped up?" the florist behind the counter asked. “It doesn't cost extra. I'm sure your wife-" Her eyes flickered down to his ringless hand. “-or your lady friend would love a satin ribbon, or some tissue paper."

He shook his head. “No, thank you."

“I insist." She smiled. “You work so hard for us. I knew it was a good idea, hiring you."

He nodded his thanks, halfway considering telling her it's for a passed friend (not really) and  _it'll just get soaked outside_ , _you don't have to_ , but decides against it. The lights and faux snow all down the street made everything seem peaceful, and he'd hate to disturb the enchantment.

“Stay warm," she said, tying the finishing bow.

“Thank you. And you as well."

“See you on Monday, Sakuma-san!"

“See you." He tipped his hat goodbye to his boss and her husband, giving him matching smiles and leaning into each other, fingers loosely laced. Clean happiness, a couple who could look forward to cluttered birthday candles, mobile stars above a crib.  

A picture of what he might've ended up as, if he had managed to survive the war and sludge through the aftershocks.

He doesn't look back at them with wistful envy, nor long for picturesque what-ifs or could-haves.

 

 

* 

 

Once in a blue moon, the manju he left had a single bite to them.

 

*

  

It threw him for a loop when there was already incense smoldering at the slab of stone. Did one of the others travel into town and not bother to say hello? _As if_. Some of them left items in his mailbox (puzzles, cubes, books with underlined jokes he might've got) and then were gone with the wind. A few had the decency to knock on his door but bummed off his liquor cabinet after. Small problems.

He ducked behind a screen of dead leaves, plucking a lighter out of his pocket. He stood there in silence, the mist cold on his face and his thoughts stretching back--

“Ah, you're here."

He stumbled at the sudden movement.

“Sakuma-san?" A finely gloved hand waved in front of his face.

“Hatano," he managed.

“Did I scare you? Sorry," Hatano said, not sounding sorry at all. “I purposefully made my footsteps louder to warn you, but."

“My deepest apologies," he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I'm rusty."

“As am I." Hatano yawned. "I'm slow on conjugating in French. It's always been a sore spot for me. And German, too." He slid a benign (too benign) look up to meet Sakuma's eyes.

“Oh." He feigned disregard for the barbed statement, brushing fallen leaves from the stone. “That's too bad."

“You wouldn't know, would you? You still remember all your languages - all two of them. "

“I only took on a few real missions before-" He cleared his throat. _Not now_. “Before the war was over."

“And Miyoshi was with you." Damn it, this kid didn't stray from stepping on landmines. “On several of them."

“...He was."

Hatano stepped closer, worming into his personal space. He elbowed Sakuma's side with glee. “Did you have fun?"

“Fun. Months pretending to be someone else, and being constantly worried about being found out."

Hatano snorted. “If you had him with you, you had nothing to worry about."

The slab of stone at their feet was a glaring error to that statement. “It wasn't his fault," Hatano said, following his gaze. “Our plans don't make us immortal, except-"

“-Except when it does," he finished, testing the waters, if Hatano knew anything about the signs, the bitten rice cakes, if someone was keeping Miyoshi's memory alive for personal gain.  

Hatano's elbow shifted, no longer digging into his ribs. He seemed to be thinking about something, judging by a lack of a rebuke. “What color are they?"

“What?"

“The frames."

He wracked his head for what Hatano was getting at. He had no pictures, no family portraits hanging polished outside of canvas covers in his closet. The dust was undisturbed when he, drunk or wistful or both, looked back at the photograph his induction ceremony. Uniformed. Proud, ramrod straight, into the lens. Nothing.

“Like sake in a cup?" Hatano pressed. “Or whiskey in a glass?"

“Hatano, you have to give me some lines to read between, at least."

“Never mind. Forget I said anything."

 _Like I could do that_. It'll probably bother him for a good few weeks, before someone did or said something even more annoying and cryptic, about dead people or the weather or whatever. “You can't just throw breadcrumbs and eat them up yourself."

“Poetic, Sakuma-san." Hatano slung a leg over a mossy log, fixing the scarf around his neck. He held up a hand, about to leave him in silence, then: “What's he to you anyways?"

“Who?"

“Miyoshi. Obviously."

His throat closed. “Don't you mean was?" He remembered his numb disbelief, back during the day the news had trickled down from Yuuki to Kaminaga to the rest of them. They had muttered things into their hands that he hadn't been privy to but seemed disturbed, almost melancholy, so it might've been a jolt, minor or not, to them too. “He was - wasn't so bad, toward the end. So he wasn't completely meaningless to me. Barely though."

The words felt misshapen coming out of his mouth. Not wrong. Just - half-baked. He didn't want to know what would form if he thought too long and hard about someone supposed to be--no. He  _is_ buried deep under an unmarked grave halfway across the globe.  

“If he meant so little to you, then what are those?" Hatano pointed at the bouquet.

“You left some, too."

“I was wandering in the woods to kill time. Wildflowers will be dead, soon."

“I work at the florist's."

“And you're still too honorable, despite what you shed off, to take flowers without paying. Even if they're leftovers and you're doing them a favor by taking them."

“If I'm as honorable as you say," he said. “Then wouldn't it make sense for me to visit my dead comrade's grave?"

A shrill burst of noise pierced the silent woods. He startled for a moment, wondering what godforsaken bird hadn't migrated south yet, then realized Hatano, the little _rascal_ , had laughed.

“Comrade?" Hatano said between giggles. “You - you never thought of us as comrades, Lieutenant. I don't see you moping at your army buddies' graves." Hatano's bright expression turned to a devilish grin, something that made his back stiffen, preparing. “Then again, none of your comrades left hickies on hidden places like he did, did they?"

 

*

 

The girl in front of him had a pretty nose.

Pretty hands, and a pretty mouth, too, that he might've burned to kiss, flustering when he'd been enamored with speeches, rehearsing nauseous things like shouldering  _duties heavier than a mountain_.

He glanced at her glossed lips closed around a straw, bent and resting on her nails-observing surreptitiously, as someone had taught him years ago. He waited for his pulse to race at the sight, for attraction to render him speechless and blushing.

It didn't come.

“I'll have the special," he told the waiter. His voice was polite to his ears and not shaking an iota. "A bit of each topping is fine."

“Not picky?" she asked after, absently smearing the condensation on her glass. “And here I only order desserts when I'm by myself."

“It doesn't have to be only by yourself."

She gave him an approving smile, cracking open the menu. He grinned a bit. She had been mostly likely set up by nagging parents as much as he had. A letter with a pointed mention of their neighbors' _lovely lovely_ grandchildren and we're not getting younger any here, thank you. It was followed by a scribble of an address of a niece of an acquaintance of another acquaintance in his coastal town.

“You mentioned that you served." She glanced up from stirring her drink. “If you don't mind me asking, where?"

Across the world. “The sea," he said instead.

“That must've been lonely, being stuck on the same ship for months or years."

“It was, at first." It had been more than lonely, early on, surrounded by calculating eyes detailing everything in a well-oiled machine.

“Did you have a sweetheart to write home to, at least?" He watched her stop twirling her straw. “It always gave mine hope, something to look forward to, before he was - gone."

He pressed his lips together, sympathetic.

“Not really."

 

*

 

The fog in the woods had never been this clear before. Sometimes, a hand would reach out and touch his cheek, slide down to rest atop his pulse point and count to ten, eleven beats before disappearing back into the mist. He yearned to reach out, but his arms had always hung in dead weights at his sides.

The fact that his arms felt light today should've been the first clue.

Something heavy dropped into his stomach when he saw someone crouching at the stone slab. He was about to call out, chastise them for eating offerings for the dead and they could _ask_ if they were hungry when he saw the shape of the jaw, shaded by a hat, almost like-

“Miyoshi."

 _This is a dream_. He walked toward the person, treading through the thick quiet.

“I haven't heard _that_ in a while."

He suppressed a flinch.

When did his memory get that sharp? If he heard a voice, it sounded underwater, without the lilt that was now loud, clear, and unmistakable.

He knew it as he thought it. _This_ -

“How long are you going to stand there for?" Miyoshi asked, standing up and looking at him, still chewing. “I like red beans. How did you know?"

Miyoshi might as well have uprooted the stone in loving memory of him (not literally) and chucked it at his head.

He pinched his arm the slightest bit to make sure.

“Seriously?" Of course Miyoshi spotted it. “Are you incapable of telling if you're awake or not?"

“And you're incapable of deciding if you're dead or alive," he retorted, yanked out of his delicate wonderment, unsure how reunions with ghosts _who refused to stay that way_ went down.

“I'm deciding now," Miyoshi replied, unmoving. “Alive."

He shuffled over, taking in the sight of Miyoshi lounging against a tree, his bespectacled face lit in a slant of light. Not the least bit angelic, he thought, with that maddening tilt to his mouth.

And he reached a hand out, willing for it to not shake as he placed it on Miyoshi's shoulder. Solid flesh and bones below his coat.

“You're...real."  

Miyoshi knocked his hand away, blinking something petulant back. “As you've so intelligently observed, Sakuma-san." This close up, he looked less sharp, or maybe it was the glasses diluting the usual gleam in his eyes. He held his gaze for a tense second and looked away, and Miyoshi crouched back down to his memorial. “Hatano, that cheeky brat. I would complain at the picture you lot used of me."

“But you aren't?"

Miyoshi shrugged. “Your manju are passable. Except, you didn't make them, did you?"

“I did," he said, scoffing. “The baker's son was in my training group."

“That's surprising," Miyoshi said, tone even and smirk unsettling. “But you're more sentimental than I thought."

“Don't flatter yourself," he said, although Miyoshi came too close to hitting the truth. “I have a lot of free time now."

“You've adjusted well to normal life, I suppose."

“I've - Either bend with the wind, or break." And slice open a belly. “Wasn't that the unspoken agreement?"

Miyoshi hummed in reply. He drew himself up and turned to face Sakuma, tipping his hat back to scrutinize him better.

“Did the others know? Besides Hatano, obviously." _I should be beyond furious that he didn't tell me._ But only relief settled inside him; he could grapple with anger later.

“They didn't," Miyoshi answered. “But now they do. I sent them messages for old times' sake."

“And you didn't bother telling me."

“I wanted to see you in person." Miyoshi stepped in closer. In spite of himself, he let himself lean forward to catch the next murmur:   

“Kiss me."

“ _What_?"

“Or, I'll kiss you. No matter how much _I_ would be the sleeping beauty out of the two of us, you're the one who needs a pleasant waking up."

“Thanks, that's polite of-"

For a wild, dreamy moment, Miyoshi wound a hand around his neck, tugging on his hair and smiling far, far too close, focused and frustrating and gorgeous. It was embarrassing how fast he froze, warmth pooling into his chest and down to the pit of his stomach. He must've dreamed this before, in the foggy dreamland where skin traced his vulnerable pulse for ten, eleven beats and melted away.

This couldn't last more than five.

He couldn't be sucked into another game, not when he felt this raw and open, suspended in a limbo between _is this really happening_ and _this is really happening_.

He lifted a hand, excruciatingly heavy, and stilled Miyoshi in his tracks.

Miyoshi's face was blank as he pulled away. It lasted for an instant before being replaced by a shadow of a grin-it was hard to tell in the darkness of the woods.

“Would you like to head into town?" Miyoshi asked, humoring him.

 

*

 

Outside of the woods, he walked in a daze.

It was surreal, seeing Miyoshi falling into step beside him in the orange light. He watched as the sea breeze swept parted hair aside (a tiny bit shorter) and as passerbys nodded politely to them. Along with a few double-takes that made Miyoshi brighten more than a _tiny_ bit.

It was as if he belonged in the sleepy town.

His back wasn't carefully upright, confident, to Sakuma's silent amazement. It was a tad relaxed and carefree, which made sense if he had no reason to hold back such sloppy motions anymore.

 _Sloppy_ wasn't it; there remained a refined angle to his gestures, an effortlessness as Miyoshi pulled out a chair and sat across from him, propping his chin on a palm.

“It's like I'm a specimen to be studied," he spoke up after an unending staredown.

“A fine specimen, at that," Miyoshi drawled, smile crooked. Genuine, almost. It shouldn't make him waver ever so slightly, shouldn't make him ache to have let Miyoshi kiss him without any meaning, but maybe the sudden novelty hadn't worn off yet.

He blinked back at him, hiding his turmoil.

Miyoshi continued, “Don't pretend I didn't notice you stare at me the whole way here."

“Ah, so I've been caught red-handed."

“You don't seem to be flustered."

“Do I have to be?"

“No, that would make you boring," Miyoshi replied, the corners of his lips twitching. He tried not to stare. “What will you have, Sakuma-san?"

“I don't know." A thought tapped his mind. “Will you hazard a guess for whoever has to pay for dinner?"

“Like a bet?" Miyoshi was leaning forward now, not bothering to hide how the suggestion drew him as flies to honey.

“Sure," he affirmed. “But - do you…"

Miyoshi tsked. “Tongue tied already, Lieutenant?"

“It's not that anymore," he corrected, a reflex. “And, do you even have a favorite food? Unless, you-"

“Yakisoba."

“Did you just randomly name one? Or is it part of your story?"

“Neither," Miyoshi replied. “I ate it a lot when I was in college. I also liked chiffon cake, when I escaped to the States. If they managed to make it not too cloying."

“Oh."

It floored him, imagining Miyoshi enjoying something innocent out of life. His younger self perched in front of food stalls before the concept of deception crossed his mind. His older (undead) self indulging in cake in a strange place, scraped from certain grim death.

It was stupid, how often he forgot how there was an intricate past behind each of the former spies.

“And neither of those are on the menu," Miyoshi said, bringing him back to the present. “So, are we doing this or not?"

“It would be unfair for only you to guess, though."

“Of course, Sakuma-san, fairness shouldn't be forgotten." Miyoshi coughed in a shoddy attempt to hide his laughter, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A scrap of paper was slid toward him. “Let's write each of our answers on here."

 

 *

 

“Are you _sure_ you want your rook to go there?"

“Well, if you say that, it definitely is."

Sometime when petals clogged the streets, snagged in his gutters, Miyoshi flitted back more often, sometimes with one or two of the others in tow. (Hatano's French really had no problem, if the fluid language they used to speak about him right in front of him was anything to go by. At least something wasn't new.)

“Sakuma, do you care to play after this?"

“I'll pass," he said, in the midst of organizing already immaculate silverware.

“Hatano is tasting defeat, soon, so you can play the easier route."

“Hey, as if-"

“Maybe later."

“Suit yourself."

He doesn't dare look up and give either of them any more ammunition against him, not when Miyoshi looked disconcerting, soft in a sweater pulled over a collared shirt. Never a suit, these days. His glasses alternated between two pairs. _So that was what Hatano meant-to test if I knew what he knew_.

He drew himself in circles, trying to deduce what it meant when Miyoshi wore each one. If he would slink out, a cat through the open trapdoor, on silver days, or stay another night to poke fun at his choice of job or furniture or something equally obnoxious during tortoiseshell. Or not. The pattern changed every time he recognized one. 

“They mean nothing," Miyoshi reassured him one day after catching his stare when taking the silver pair off to polish. “It's amusing, watching you try to guess, though."

He snorted, feeling like the specimen Miyoshi noted he was, without the fineness. “Did you always need them?"

“Without the agency's access to the state of the art technology, I do. Nothing that would ever have jeopardized my past functioning, though."

“I wasn't implying it was."

“Oh?" Miyoshi smiled into his teacup. “Were you admiring their phenomenal look?"

 _Maybe_. “As if."

“I'll take them off, if it'll make me closer to charming you again."

He choked a little, fighting the visual of Miyoshi, centimeters away, about to press his intoxicating mouth to his, and-other things he did what that mouth, a long time ago.

“Keep them on," he managed. “It doesn't help your case, either way."

“Am I that unattractive, now?" Miyoshi mused. “I considered the possibility that you had someone, back in November when you stopped me. Except your demeanor doesn't suggest a lover."

“Or maybe you're looking into it wrong."

Miyoshi looked mildly affronted, then quizzical. “Surely you're not harboring something as useless as unrequited feelings?"

“No."

“Then, you're lusting after the florist, because adultery makes you hot and bothered."

“You're mocking me."

“Never."

“Have you considered I don't appreciate being treated like a puzzle, or a dog to roll over at your command?"

“Well, yes."

“And?"

Miyoshi didn't respond.

He sighed, knowing that clammed up expression hadn't indulged his questions in the past, even if it was something as simple as _are you alright_? He got up to clean up the table and prepare for work, maybe Miyoshi will tell him later, and-

Stilled when fingers grazed his knuckles, light and cool.

He paused, not daring to move as Miyoshi traced the shape of his hands without saying a word. _What was he-_ Slower around his calluses, then withdrew (along with a sliver of his rational thought) and curled back around a teacup.   

“I like puzzles."

“...You do." The way the words were said knocked the wind of him. He wracked his thoughts for answers, breathless. “And what? A dog can be your best friend?"

“That's why I hate cats less. Or with a different kind of abhorrence." Miyoshi laughed softly.

And something about him, the curious brush of his fingertips before, the careless amusement on his lips, made Sakuma want to kiss him all over again.

“You don't have to do anything but smile," he blurted out. _Gods, I'm never going to live this down, am I-_

But for a fleeting instant, Miyoshi looked dumbfounded, and he saved the rare sight somewhere deep inside.

 

*

 

Miyoshi fell asleep next to him, the nights he was in town, peaceful as a corpse in his spare futon. Less guarded. An illusion, if he didn't know any better.  

Or, Miyoshi had nothing left to shield. He recalled his few and far between missions, how he had been disoriented, dizzy in what was real or part of his character after he returned. Slipping into role after role, linking false names and backstories into spun gold, tended to flush things down the porcelain sink.

“Are you okay with ‘Miyoshi'?" he asked, unable to sleep. “I could learn your name again."

“No, don't bother." He didn't bother opening his eyes, nor did he turn on his side to face Sakuma. “I don't know what name I would pick."

“I meant your real name."

Miyoshi feigned sleep, even if it was obvious that no one could fall asleep that fast after being awake and composed. He had it down to an art, nevertheless, with a perfectly timed rise and fall to his chest, dim face slack, unmarked, unfeeling.  

He didn't ask again.

Perhaps Miyoshi didn't want to relive his youth, or couldn't pry it open after swallowing the key, stomaching it, forcing it from retching back up. They weren't spies hung out to dry anymore.

 

* 

 

“You're leaving?"

“Don't be a fool. It's not for forever."

“. . . Stay safe, then."

“ _Stay safe_? Don't I always?"

 

*

 

“I did the dishes. And there's mail for you," Miyoshi said when he stepped in, kicking off his muddy shoes. There had been an abysmal amount of rain coming back from work.

Miyoshi must've let himself in and made himself comfortable, his legs propped on top of cushions as he flipped through the newspaper. The familiar sight fit into his home, not like he hadn't been gone for weeks.

He peeled off his jacket, hanging it on his coat rack. “Is the mayor's speech that exciting?"

“I'm looking for the crossword. For Amari, the next time he visits."

“He's in Sapporo, isn't he?"

“With Emma."

“Yeah." He remembered them showing up with baskets of bread to feed the seagulls. It had made him feel oddly content. “It should be scary, how fast she's learning Mandarin."

“Already mastered it," Miyoshi said demurely. “I bought her other books since then."

“That's...generous of you."

“Glad you approve."

He isn't sure if Miyoshi _let_ him see his lingering gaze trailing down with the rivulets on his neck, because Miyoshi the spy was a lot more subtle than that. Self-conscious, he wiped away the stray drops.

He approached the stack on the counter and tore open the first envelope. A flowery scent struck his nose as he opened the invitation. “Someone's getting married next month."

“Who?"

“He served for a while with me."

Miyoshi turned back to the newspaper. “When will you tie your own knot?"

“I - I don't know. What, no guesses?"

“Hmm. I'll give you..." Miyoshi creased a page down. “Thirty years."

“You-" Spluttering, he sat down next to Miyoshi, clumsier than he'd liked. He blamed it on the fact that their proximity made him dazed, sometimes, like everything was tinged by daydreams.  

“Or never."

Miyoshi's smirk was back again. He didn't ooze calculation or seduction at every turn, but was still smooth at the smallest of things. Almost alluring. Twirling a spoon between his slender fingers, nibbling on rice cakes then thumbing the flour dust off. Lying against the arm of the couch, now, staring up at him in a plain challenge. 

( _What's he to you anyways?_ )

Before he caught himself, he was crashing their lips together, toppling Miyoshi over the length of the couch. To the side, the newspaper fluttered to the floor.

“Finally," Miyoshi said, delight glittering in his eyes when he pulled back for air.

“You're infuriating. And - my nose hurts."

In a flick of his wrist, Miyoshi took off his glasses and tugged him closer. “Better?"

Without them, he remembered similar situations, in London, Tokyo, elsewhere, sometime before the middle of the century. When frustrations ran too high and he kissed him back, desperate and hot.  

It wasn't the same.

He cupped a hand around his jaw, letting his full body weight drop down-A flinch.  He wouldn't have noticed if their bodies weren't melded together. Tentatively, he drew back, skimmed the skin beneath Miyoshi's shirt, and felt faint bumpy scars.

The realization made him stop cold on the iced tracks.

More slowly, he lowered himself and was met with a flicker of acknowledgement. 

_Duly noted._

Gently, lost in feeling, he brushed a thumb over Miyoshi's lower lip. Too gently, as Miyoshi made an impatient noise, curving up to bite down hard at his throat. “Are we making love, Sakuma-san? We should get down to it like rabbits."

“Why are you always this crude?" He huffed out a breath, trying hard to not let the relief overwhelm him. “Never mind - it's you." He leaned down for another kiss, languid and smoldering, felt fingers weave through his hair and press into his skull.

(Miyoshi tangled their legs together, and he felt warmth fizzling down to his fingertips with every subtle, hitched breath he drew out of him.)

 

* 

 

“Try not to do the predictable thing."

“And what's that?'

“Fall in love with me."

 

 


End file.
